


Nighttime Visiter

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dominant Sherlock, Light Bondage, Light D/s undertones, M/M, Mycroft's POV, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sherlock is Spoiled, Sibling Incest, Watersports, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:11:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had to admit that Sherlock had a way of making Mycroft’s agreement to his watersports request seem less like humoring and more like an enthusiastic yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nighttime Visiter

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely [Anarfea](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea). Thanks again my dear!

Mycroft groaned as the dreams he’d been having slipped through his grasp and darted off into the distance before he could catch them again. He became aware of someone manhandling him onto his back, which wasn’t _generally_ how he preferred to start his day. The unknown individual pressed their knees to either side of his hips, close enough that Mycroft could smell the familiar combination of body wash and aftershave. The scent of his brother wasn’t enough to dispel his irritation at being awoken by brute force in the middle of the night, but it did smother his jolt of fear that someone had come to kidnap him from his own bed. 

Not that Sherlock was incapable of kidnapping - as John would gladly attest - but there was hardly a need for him to steal Mycroft away. His brother knew that if he demanded his presence, Mycroft would come to him. Sherlock had, in fact, called for him just last week. He had left an important meeting with the Canadian Prime Minister to find his brother waiting in 221B with a Cluedo set. 

Mycroft was not unaware that he spoiled his brother, often to his own detriment.

Sherlock leaned across his body and switched on the table lamp next to the bed.

He hissed as light hit him in the face. Must Sherlock _always_ care so little for those around him?

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Mycroft asked. By now, the exasperation in his voice might as well have been considered his brother’s oldest and truest friend. 

Blurry eyes darted over Sherlock’s right shoulder to the clock resting on the far wall. The numbers told him it was seventeen past two in the morning. His puffy eyelids told him that such a time was _ludicrous,_ and that his brother should be banned from existing before five o’clock, at the earliest.

“I would have thought that obvious, brother mine.” Sherlock took hold of his wrists, and, before Mycroft’s sleep-addled brain could process what he was doing, snapped them into the handcuffs he must have added to the headboard while Mycroft was sleeping. Sherlock leaned back onto Mycroft’s thighs and examined his captive. Mycroft scowled at him.

“Release me. I’m not in the mood for your games.” He tested the chain that linked the cuffs, but jangling was all he received for his straining. 

Soft padding may have lined the insides of the shackles, but it was no ordinary sex toy: the metal was real. Adding the quality of his headboard into the equation, Mycroft wasn’t likely to free himself short of chewing off a limb, which he tended to avoid when able. He was completely at his brother’s mercy, a thought that would have aroused and terrified him in equal measures if he’d received more than a couple hours’ rest. As it was, Mycroft found himself regretting that he hadn’t “forgotten” Sherlock in Argentina during that one case they’d worked together. 

“Sorry.” Sherlock shifted his face into an exaggerated frown. “I lost the key. Who knows where it might have fallen? Should I call your assistant and see if she wants to help look?” Sherlock put his right foot onto the floor and then lifted off of Mycroft with a full twirl so that he came to rest facing the nightstand. He picked up Mycroft’s mobile and typed in a number. The screen flashed red when the “Incorrect Passcode” warning popped into view.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and silently asked all the deities he didn’t believe in why he’d been _blessed_ with such a sibling. “Even if I believed that for a single moment, we both know you’re capable of picking the lock.”

“Hmm, yes. Unfortunately, you _aren’t._ ” Sherlock gave him a dazzling smile that would have been breathtaking if not for its insincerity.

Despite what rumors might say to the contrary, Mycroft did know when to accept defeat. “Please, Sherlock, I’m exhausted. Can’t we do this later?”

“We could, but that would defeat the purpose of satisfying my current arousal.” Sherlock’s focus remained on the mobile as he turned his hips so that the lamp’s light accentuated the bulge in his trousers. As if Mycroft hadn’t felt it pressing into him earlier. 

“You have hands. And a shower. I’ll even let you use mine, if you must.” Mycroft returned Sherlock’s false smile with one of his own.

The screen flashed red again, but his brother was getting closer to deducing the correct sequence of numbers. Sherlock’s little bounce told him such. Mycroft had never gotten around to informing Sherlock of his tell. Must have slipped his mind. 

“Dull.” Sherlock typed in another number, and this time Mycroft was treated to the sight of an important and highly secured piece of government property unlocking to reveal all of its secrets to one of the most purposefully indiscreet men Mycroft had ever had the misfortune of knowing. Colors flashed across Sherlock’s face as he flipped through the apps. 

“Please tell me you didn’t break into my house, wake me from my well-earned rest, and chain me to my own bed just so you could read my email.” 

“I’ve already read your email, brother dear, and have no desire to do so again any time soon. All of your little scheduled meetings. Chats about the _environment,_ of all things. Dreadfully tedious.” Sherlock typed something into his mobile and showed the screen to Mycroft. It was a message to Anthea, telling her to cancel his meetings arranged for later that day because he was going to be too tired from all of the shagging in which he was about to engage. 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Eloquent as ever.” Sherlock hit “send” and set the mobile back on the nightstand. 

Mycroft’s gaze followed Sherlock as he circled round the bed and slipped out of the room. He threw his head back into his pillows with a painful sigh. Once he was freed, he was going to strangle his brother with his bare hands. Then he was going to find a particularly dim-witted private investigator, someone who’d never figure it out no matter the clues given to them, and hide the body in their house. Just for spite. 

Sherlock re-entered the room not long after his departure and tossed something in between Mycroft’s legs. Mycroft jumped as it crashed against him. He peered down to find a chilly water bottle resting alongside his left knee. 

Mycroft ran his eyes down his brother’s frame as he shifted through the possibilities. Sherlock was carrying another three bottles, and they’d obviously all come from Mycroft’s own refrigerator. His brother deposited the extras on the night stand and then snatched the bottle between Mycroft’s legs. 

“Have you figured it out yet?” Sherlock asked, cracking the seal and guzzling down a third of the bottle in one go. Mycroft swallowed alongside his brother as Sherlock’s Adams apple bobbed.

“Yes.” There were only so many activities that required that much water and no other supplies. “Judging by my current predicament-” Mycroft jingled his chains “-and your refusal to abide by my wishes to sleep, am I to conclude that you’ll force me if I disagree?”

“Are you disagreeing?” Sherlock lowered the open bottle to him so that it hung millimeters away from Mycroft’s lips. A silent invitation.

His gaze once again travelled the taut line of his brother’s body. Sherlock was without his customary suit jacket, though the evidence of its earlier existence could be seen on the other clothing he wore. He’d chosen the purple shirt Mycroft favored, as well as black trousers that appeared far too tight to be comfortable at the moment. 

Mycroft’s lips wrapped around the bottle’s neck. 

Sherlock fidgeted but managed to push his bouncy excitement into a smile rather than literal bouncing as Mycroft drank. The bottle tilted upwards as it was emptied, until the last of the water had been drained down Mycroft’s throat. Sherlock tossed the plastic to the side without looking and opened another, but Mycroft shook his head. 

“Give me a moment.” The chill of the water had made his throat burn.

Mycroft half-expected his brother to mutter something unpleasant regarding “transport” and badger him until he finally drank just to shut Sherlock up. Luckily, the satisfaction of having his fantasy fulfilled seemed to calm Sherlock’s more unsocial tendencies, and he placed the bottle back on the nightstand. Of course, Sherlock couldn’t stand to be bored for even a moment, and so he turned his attention to the rest of Mycroft while he waited. 

Taking hold of the blankets, Sherlock pulled them until they bunched up around Mycroft’s ankles. He made no move to uncuff Mycroft now that he’d agreed to Sherlock’s game. Mycroft’s lips thinned into a hard line at his brother’s obvious intention to have him wet his bed, but he remained silent. There existed little point to their exercise if Sherlock didn’t enjoy it. Mycroft would just have to ask Anthea to arrange a discrete laundering service afterwards. Or perhaps he’d merely burn everything in the fireplace. 

His pyjama bottoms soon followed the blankets, though this time Sherlock stopped at his knees. It bound his legs, for all intents and purposes, but Mycroft assumed that was a side-effect rather than the intention. His brother had an odd fascination with seeing him half-dressed, which Mycroft couldn’t fault. He knew the effects of a good outfit more than anyone, most especially on the arousal of foreign dignitaries. The effects of a good outfit on Sherlock’s jealousy when his brother saw Mycroft dressed to arouse foreign dignitaries were even more delightful.

Sherlock eyed Mycroft’s now-exposed cock. His face gave away nothing in regards to his feelings towards its flaccidity, but Mycroft didn’t need facial expressions to tell Sherlock was annoyed. Not that Mycroft was particularly bothered by his brother’s annoyance. _Sherlock_ was the one who’d dragged a middle-aged man out of dead sleep and proceeded to force him to _drink water,_ of all things. 

Sherlock slipped onto the bed and settled himself with his knees on the outside of Mycroft’s hips. He made quick work of Mycroft’s now blanket-less torso, and the pyjama top slid apart centimeter by centimeter as swift fingers loosened each button. Eventually, they were all free of their holes and Sherlock was able to push the blue cotton off Mycroft’s chest. His nipples pebbled as the cooler air hit them. 

His brother watched him through half-lidded eyes as he bent down to capture one of the peaks. Mycroft bit his lip as Sherlock bit his flesh. He’d always had sensitive nipples – a pleasant discovery for Sherlock many years ago – and now Mycroft found himself all but melting underneath his brother’s well-practiced mouth. Sherlock nibbled and sucked and pulled with a force far gentler than Mycroft would have thought him capable of if he’d not been experiencing it right that moment. Closing his eyes, he relaxed back into the pillows and allowed the sensation to wash over him. 

Wet kisses trailed across Mycroft’s chest until Sherlock reached the unattended nipple, which his brother devoured with as much fervor as the first. Meanwhile, Sherlock’s hand slid into the gap between their bodies and took hold of Mycroft’s forming erection. Sherlock pulled the foreskin down and slid his thumb over Mycroft’s exposed glans before tugging the foreskin back up and then down again. Mycroft groaned as his brother repeated the motion several times. He had to admit that Sherlock had a way of making Mycroft’s agreement to his watersports request seem less like humoring and more like an enthusiastic yes. 

Sherlock exchanged one hand for the other as he reached over Mycroft and slipped the lubricant out of the top drawer of his nightstand. His brother paused long enough to squirt an ample amount onto his palms before returning to draw small gasps from Mycroft. He pressed his erection upwards as Sherlock shifted back from his hips to his knees and proceeded to slid his hands, one after the other, along Mycroft’s cock. He moaned as Sherlock’s hands stopped at the head so that he could rub his thumbs across his slit and spread the pre-ejaculate over his glans.

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft whimpered. It felt marvelous and wonderful and a thousand other adjectives, but it was not _enough_. He growled in frustration as Sherlock touched his cock again, his brother alternating between using his whole hand and his fingertips. It was enough to keep Mycroft aching but not enough to allow him release. 

_“Sherlock.”_

His brother, utter brat that he was, completely ignored him in favor of grasping for another water bottle. 

Mycroft was forced to consume half the bottle before Sherlock was satisfied enough to grant him air. The other half was poured over Mycroft’s saliva-slickened nipples, into his navel, and across the expanse of skin resting between the three. He shivered. His nipples peaked to points so hard they had Mycroft’s hands clenching into fists. 

Sherlock’s lips returned to Mycroft’s skin. His brother leisurely lapped up the water trailing across his chest as if he were a spoiled cat who enjoyed his bowl of milk with far too much smugness. Mycroft closed his eyes and took slow, calming breaths and tried not to think about his ignored cock as Sherlock dipped his tongue into his navel. His usually exceptional concentration fled as Sherlock travelled lower, and took _just_ the head of Mycroft’s cock into his mouth. Mycroft’s eyes snapped open to find a mischievous grin gracing his brother’s face.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft chided, though his tone was anything but chiding as Sherlock slid the rest of his cock into that wondrously wet opening. If he had to choose, Mycroft would say his voice was a cross between the time his brother had left him tied down and unable to shift even a centimeter away from the fucking machine Sherlock had bought himself for his birthday – with Mycroft’s credit card – and the very first time Sherlock had pushed him onto the bed and slipped his hand down Mycroft’s trousers.

Sherlock’s mouth popped as it came off Mycroft’s cock, before slipping onto it again. Mycroft mewled and wriggled, forcing Sherlock to grasp his hips and hold him down as he worked his lips up and down his cock. Mycroft whimpered and vowed to _outlaw_ his brother’s ability to deep throat. For the good of the nation.

Mycroft tensed as he felt it coming. So close- He- Sherlock’s mouth-

Sherlock’s saliva left his cock glistening in the lamplight as he pulled off Mycroft and refused to continue his previous task when Mycroft silently begged with the pointed arching of his hips. _Damn him!_ Damn him to hell and then damn him back so that Mycroft could damn him to hell again. 

Dark curls grazed Mycroft’s cheek as Sherlock shifted upwards to lick the outer shell of his ear. “Not yet. I want to watch you lose control, brother dear.” 

Mycroft shivered. 

Lips attached themselves to Mycroft’s jawline and kissed their way down his neck. They paused there for a moment – Sherlock taking his pulse no doubt – before travelling off the path to Mycroft’s collarbone. He groaned when his brother bit into the skin there, leaving a claim that only they two would ever see. 

Sherlock’s ravishing attention was a nice change from the usual fair, and Mycroft would have been content to bask in it for hours if he’d not had more pressing matters at that moment.

 _“Please.”_

Sherlock continued to ignore him, so Mycroft ignored his brother’s amused chuckle as he rubbed their pelvic areas together. If Sherlock wouldn’t do it, he’d do it himself. He was so close. If only he could-

Mycroft’s breath caught as Sherlock’s rarely-used empathy finally switched on, and his brother took pity on him by wrapping his hand around Mycroft’s cock. Sherlock continued to lavish his neck with kisses as his hand moved between them. It didn’t take much more before Mycroft was finally able to groan in relief. His hands clenched into fists as his entire body shook with the feeling. 

Sherlock’s pity fled just as quickly as it’d come, and Mycroft was pleading anew as Sherlock continued to milk his oversensitive cock. 

“Please. Stop. Sherlock!” Mycroft wriggled and bucked. It was too much. He would _die_ if Sherlock didn’t halt his actions _immediately_. Mycroft tried to distance himself from that terrible touch, but his brother’s weight combined with his chained hands provided him with little leverage. 

“Stop,” he pleaded, as neon warning sights started to flash in his mind’s eye. Oh heavens. If Sherlock didn’t stop- He couldn’t. He _couldn’t_. He cried out and attempted to jerk away again, only to earn himself a full minute of Sherlock leisurely smearing come across his cockhead. 

“Please. Please.Pleasepleaseple-”

Sherlock gave him one final squeeze before granting him mercy.

Mycroft was vaguely aware of his eyes leaking as he promised himself vengeance against his brother.

Breathing in sharp gasps that burned his lungs, Mycroft had no voice to protest as Sherlock unzipped his own trousers, slipped his cock out, and pressed it against Mycroft’s. And then his dear, _dear_ baby brother pissed all over the both of them. 

It wasn’t an easy stream. Sherlock wasn’t completely erect, as evidenced by the fact that he could urinate at all, but the concentration required to force the liquid out of his hardened cock was palpable. Sherlock’s lips curled back and his breath hissed out between parted teeth and still his efforts were barely rewarded with a trickle. At first. Then, almost as if it’d been waiting for some sign from above, a warm burst shot out as if launched from a rocket. It was followed by several smaller shots in what turned into a steady, but uneven, flow that was completely incapable of being directed.

Mycroft grimaced as the uncontrolled stream shot up between their bodies, though Sherlock did do his best to protect Mycroft’s face. Mostly by pressing his weight down on him so that any urine that didn’t pool onto Mycroft’s stomach and overflow onto the bed instead soaked up into Sherlock’s shirt, where it stuck to them both in a most unpleasant fashion. 

Sherlock’s mouth descended upon his once Mycroft had retrieved enough breath to allow such an action. The passion evident in his brother’s kiss was enough to wipe away his grimace, but only just. This was going to be _hell_ to clean. 

It all made Mycroft uncomfortably aware of his own building need. Now that his thirst for orgasm had been quenched – and the irony of that word choice was not lost on Mycroft – his body reminded him that there was more than one type of release required. He resisted the urge to squirm underneath the press of Sherlock’s weight on his bladder – suddenly, _unexpectedly_ – bashful of making his brother aware of his body’s demand. 

“You?” Sherlock asked once their lips had drawn apart. His brother had finally run dry, and now Sherlock’s focus was once again on Mycroft’s part in his fantasy. 

Mycroft was tempted to lie, for what little good it would do him. Sherlock would merely force more water down his throat. So, instead, he closed his eyes and concentrated, hoping to move things along so that they could get to the clean-up stage of their adventure. 

It did not work as well as he would have liked. 

While one part of his brain commanded his muscles to relax and allow the liquid to flow, the other, more dominant and longer-living part, told him that he couldn’t _possibly._ That part squeezed down as if he were in the middle of a meeting with the important dignitaries of the world. It shouted at him that while Sherlock pissing on him was mildly annoying, pissing on _himself_ was patently unacceptable. 

To just lose control like that…

“I may require some time.”

Sherlock took that as an invitation to kiss him again, and this time his tongue demanded dominance over Mycroft’s entire mouth. Mycroft allowed it to touch everything it desired while his own tongue submissively accepted Sherlock’s sucking. His brother rewarded him with several soft kisses on the lips and a trailing line of saliva across his jawline and neck. If he ignored the rapidly cooling mess between them, and the stickiness that went with it, Mycroft had to admit it was nice. Even when they weren’t actively bickering, they rarely found time to lay together and leisurely snog. He could grow used to such pastimes.

He tried to _alleviate_ his concern once more, but the well-ingrained part of him refused to let go of the many years of societal training. It didn’t help that Sherlock was watching. Waiting for _it_ specifically. Though they’d shared bodily fluids numerous times in their relationship – one thousand, one hundred and sixty-five, to be precise – Mycroft couldn’t shake the feeling that this was somehow far more intimate, far more _taboo_ than anything they’d done before.

He tried to subtly close his legs, but he could hardly be subtle while another lay upon him.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked. He maneuvered so that more of his weight was on Mycroft’s pelvic area. “It’s not too _uncivilized_ for you, is it brother dear?” Sherlock pressed a kiss against Mycroft’s collarbone and rocked against his bladder. Mycroft’s muscles screamed in protest at the attack. He wasn’t going to be able to hold it for much longer.

“It looks to me as if you’ve already soiled your bedding. Who else could have pissed all over you in the middle of the night? And look-” Sherlock pulled away to expose Mycroft. He shivered as the air hit his still-wet skin. “-you’ve even wanked all over yourself in addition.” Sherlock tsked. “What would Mummy say? Should I take a picture and show her what her precious _Mycroft_ has done?” Sherlock scooped up some of the semen on Mycroft’s stomach and rubbed it into the skin above his pubic hair, pressing down lightly. 

Mycroft sucked in a breath. With Sherlock’s weight now on his thighs, it was more difficult for him to squeeze his legs together, but not impossible. No, what was impossible was ignoring his brother’s coaxing voice as he pushed in and pulled away from Mycroft’s bladder in an erratic rhythm that was difficult to anticipate. 

“Perhaps we should put the Ice Man in a nappy since it appears he can’t control himself.” Sherlock paused in his torture, leaving Mycroft’s muscles twitching. “You used to change my nappies didn’t you?” A look of curious contemplation crossed his face, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

Mycroft knew otherwise, but that didn’t stop his “Sherlock!” from slipping free. They didn’t mention things like _that_ when they were doing things like _this_. Of course, seeing the trap didn’t stop Mycroft from falling for it and he hissed as a little urine managed to leak out of him during his brief lapse in concentration. Everything squeezed – his eyes, his hands, his legs – as he clamped down on the muscles before they could betray him again. 

Bloody hell. It was simultaneously the most wonderful and the most terrible need in the world.

Sherlock smirked. If Mycroft’s hands had been free, he’d have reached up and pinched his nipple.

“It’s an interesting sensation - the need to urinate,” Sherlock carried on conversationally. “What starts out as a faint alert in the back of the mind can grow into an all-consuming thought that’s almost erotic in nature.”

“Fascinating,” Mycroft hissed.

“Hmm, yes.” They stared each other down as Sherlock considered what to do next. Or at least made a show of it. One didn’t bring up watersports out of the blue, not even Sherlock. It wasn’t so much a matter of Sherlock deciding what was next on the agenda as deciding which imagined scenario to follow.

“There are those that consider the desperation the best part of the play.” 

“Rather than the degradation, you mean?” Mycroft was in control enough to add, though only just. He practically ached from the need to give in and grant Sherlock exactly what he wanted – his “perfect” big brother soiling both them and his bedsheets.

“Clearly. Though I don’t believe them to be correct in what they deem the better of the two parts, I can see the benefits of exploring both sensations. Perhaps we should run an experiment.”

“Do tell.” 

A strange chill ran through Mycroft as his body struggled with what to do now that it’d been refused one of its most basic functions, almost as if it was trying to send him a message via other means. In case Mycroft had missed the screaming from his lower half.

Sherlock leaned over him once again, and Mycroft groaned at the returned weight. His jaw clenched as a tad more urine managed to escape. Sherlock’s smile told him that he’d felt it, no matter the abysmal state they were already in, but that didn’t mean Mycroft couldn’t pretend that nothing had happened. 

“I think the best course would to be explore both options,” Sherlock said. “I’ll plug you and leave, an hour or two should be an appropriate starting point for our experiment, and then I’ll return with a catheter tube and we can start charting which is the more erotic of the play.”

Oh, his baby brother was talented. 

Mycroft gasped as he couldn’t hold it anymore. As distasteful as wetting himself may be, being forced to hold it for another couple of hours would be an inhuman act of torture the likes of which he surely didn’t deserve. He turned his face towards his arm and tried to muffle his moan as another wave of warm liquid shot between them. 

Despite everything so far, Mycroft couldn’t help but flush. If Mummy ever found out- Well, if Mummy ever found out a great many things, Mycroft would be disowned, possibly murdered with a frying pan, no matter that it had been _Sherlock_ who’d decided they were going to start having sex and _Sherlock_ who came up with these ridiculous ideas and _Sherlock_ who’d certainly bring him a catheter sometime in the next week, his brother’s interest in the idea obvious.

All things considered, this was hardly the worst thing they’d done together.

It was Sherlock’s turn to groan as he slipped his hand between them again, this time touching his own cock. He seemed perfectly content to use Mycroft’s piss as lubrication as he masturbated. Which was just as well, because Mycroft would have found _some_ way to free himself and toss Sherlock out into the street if he’d even suggested Mycroft return the favor of his earlier fellatio. Instead, Sherlock pressed his face into the crook of Mycroft’s neck and moaned into his skin as his hand quickened. 

Sherlock stiffened and Mycroft’s final coating of the night shot onto his chest and stomach. Bloody hell. He needed a shower. Sherlock slouched against him, and his breath ghosted across Mycroft’s shoulder. 

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” Mycroft said, before Sherlock could do just that. 

Sighing as if Mycroft had just ruined _everything_ \- his brother, always the melodramatic one - Sherlock slipped the handcuff key from his trouser pocket. He freed Mycroft and then snuggled down on top of him, seemingly content to use him as a pillow. Mycroft was hard-pressed to think of anything worse. Perhaps being beaten with a pipe in a dirty Serbian prison. 

“No. I’m taking a shower. Move.”

“If you allow me this moment, I’ll take your Balstings case for you.” Sherlock said into Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft paused his attempts to roll Sherlock off him (and onto the floor, if he was lucky). “And the parade problem?” That one was more important than the Balstings, and he’d negotiate for the one instead of the other, if needed.

“One hour for each.” Sherlock shifted to get more comfortable, already having accepted his victory.

Mycroft was tempted to toss him on the floor just for that, but succumbed to logic. If Sherlock handled those cases, he could shift his attention to the election. Scrunching up his nose, he attempted to find a position that wouldn’t be completely unbearable for two hours’ time. 

“Pull up the blanket.”

Sherlock did, with much grumbling protest. 

Wrapping his arms around Sherlock, Mycroft buried his nose into black curls. Two hours was hardly a considerable amount of time. Less than the length of his usual meeting with the Prime Minister, which was both less fun, and arguably less useful. 

Of course, when two hours passed, it was a sleepy Mycroft squeezing Sherlock so tightly he couldn’t slip away.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this took forever to complete, but it definitely came out for the better that way. Hope you all enjoyed it!


End file.
